


a thousand winds that blow

by takingoffmyshoes



Category: Ranger's Apprentice - John Flanagan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood, Gen, Grief, Mentions of self-harm, minor gore, please heed warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-12 23:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21234200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: Do not stand at my grave and cry;I am not there. I did not die.(AU where Bacari manages to hit both Will and Halt in Book 9)





	a thousand winds that blow

**Author's Note:**

> because [SOMEONE](https://araluen-arrows.tumblr.com) was like "au where bacari rips off another shot while he’s escaping and it hits will, who is kneeling over halt," so here. have some goddamn death fic, you goblins (jk i love u all)

Neither of them sees Bacari slow, turn, and aim again.

Neither sees the bolt streak through the grey haze of dead and tangled forest.

Neither sees where it had come from, but when some deeply seated instinct sends Will’s arm up to block his face, and the iron head strikes hard enough to break bone, well.

They both see that just fine.

Δ

Back at the camp, Horace cleans and bandages Halt’s wound, then the two of them have to hold Will down and cut the bolt from his arm. He refuses the salve that would save him the worst of the pain, and loses consciousness with the first cut.

By the time the quarrel is dug out, along with two chips of bone, the ground around him is soaked with blood and his face is ashen with the lack of it. Halt stitches up the incision and tries to pretend that this will end well.

Δ

When morning comes and Will is burning with fever, no one is surprised. It was a bad wound, unlikely to heal cleanly.

When afternoon comes and Halt begins acting strangely, confusing names and losing track of his thoughts, Horace barely notices. His own mind feels none too secure in his head. 

But when Halt rises, takes a pace, then staggers, and collapses, Horace knows.

“It’s poison,” Halt tells him later, when he’s more himself, but Horace knows.

“Will, too?” he asks, with no real hope. Halt nods.

“Will, too.”

Will, who still hasn’t woken. Will, who may well have the poison in his very bones.

“What can I do?” Horace asks. “What can I _do?”_

“The warmweed salve,” Halt says. “It’s been known to slow poison before.”

“Will it be enough?”

Halt doesn’t answer.

Δ

Will struggles to semi-consciousness that evening, as the northern light is fading and the chill is settling in.

The first thing out of his mouth is a hoarse and unsure, “Halt?” And when it’s Horace who comes to kneel at his side, rather than his mentor, he looks so confused, so lost.

“He’s been poisoned,” Horace says, before Will can ask. “You both have. I’m so sorry, Will. I’m so sorry.”

Will stares blankly up at him, eyes red-rimmed and bruised and skin sickly pale. “The Genovesans,” he says at last. “They poisoned the bolts.”

Horace nods. He doesn’t trust his voice.

“Is there anything—” Will breaks off with a violent twitch as some deep pain flares, and Horace aches to soothe him, to settle him, but he doesn’t know how.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. He can _taste_ his helplessness, like vinegar at the back of his throat.

Or maybe that’s just tears. Either way, he knows it’s grief.

Δ

By some final cruelty of fate, Will and Halt are almost never awake at the same time. Horace pulls their bedrolls together, though, and hopes that they can draw some comfort from each other’s presence.

Will is too sick for meaningful displays of emotion, and Halt is too, well, _Halt,_ but there’s something raw in the way they look at each other, guilt and despair and disbelief braided into something almost tangible.

“He’s my apprentice,” Halt says, voice cracked and broken as Will tosses restlessly beside him. “He’s like my son, and I led him into this. I put him in danger, and I let him die.”

“He’s a Ranger,” Horace reminds him. “He chose to follow you, even knowing the danger. You haven’t let him down, Halt.” _You're not the one letting him die._

“I promised Pauline,” Will rasps, fingers of his good hand white-knuckled around a fold of Halt’s cloak. “I promised her I’d keep him safe, and I failed. What am I going to tell her?” he asks, suddenly desperate. “What am I going to _tell_ her?”

“You won’t have to tell her anything,” Horace promises, then feels his heart break for the thousandth time as he hears the words, but pushes on. “He’s going to be fine, you’ll see. He’s Halt, remember?” He forces a grin that feels like it should tear his lips.

“Oh,” Will says, focus already fading. “Right. He’s Halt.”

“You’ll be fine, too,” Horace adds, but either Will doesn’t hear him, or he knows that _that_ one, at least, is a lie.

Δ

Horace doesn’t sleep, and only eats when one of them is lucid enough to remind him to.

It’s usually Halt.

Will doesn’t really _get_ lucid anymore, which is why, when early one morning his eyes open and lock on Horace’s without a trace of uncertainty or hesitation, Horace _knows._

“Will,” he says, voice breaking. 

Will smiles gently. “I have to go,” he says. 

“No you don’t,” Horace insists. He laces his fingers through Will’s and holds on tight, not caring if the grip is crushing or the pressure painful. “You _don’t_ have to go, you have to _stay._” In the dim pre-dawn light, the tears blind him easily. “Halt needs you. Alyss needs you. _I_ need you. You can’t—”

“Everyone does someday,” Will reminds him. He seems so at peace with it, so _content,_ when he should be raging and screaming and fighting against the pull.

_“Please,”_ Horace tries. _“Please,_ Will, don’t do this to me. To _us_. Just hold on a little longer, all right? Just until Halt wakes up, so you can say— so you can say goodbye.”

“I’ll see him soon enough,” Will says. “Nothing lasts forever, you know.”

Horace squeezes his hand even tighter, and tries to commit the feel of it to memory. Tries to blink away the tears enough to get a good look at his face, and tries to fill out the lines and hollows in his mind so that the last sight of his friend won’t be this drawn, sallow mask. As if he knows what he’s trying to do, Will smiles, and some of the gauntness seems to fall away.

“I have to go soon,” Will says again, in that same soft voice. “Stay with me until I do?”

“Of course,” Horace whispers. “Of course I will.”

“Tell me a story?” 

Horace nods. If this is all Will wants of him, he’ll tell stories until there’s no air left for him to breathe. He takes a moment to compose himself, then lets the fingers of his other hand wander across Will’s face, through his hair as he starts to talk. “Once there were two wards in Redmont Castle,” he begins, somewhat unsteadily. “They both wanted to be knights, but while one of them was big and lumbering, the other was small and sneaky…”

He talks aimlessly until the first lines of light appear over the horizon, and all the while Will’s eyes stay fixed on his. But gradually, they start to droop, drifting shut for longer and longer before Will can pry them open again. Maybe it’s the light, but he looks paler, greyer. 

Then his eyes close, and don’t open.

“‘M gonna go to sleep now,” Will mumbles, barely audible.

“Okay,” Horace says. “Sleep well. I’ll— I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Will breathes, and then he doesn’t.

Horace holds his hand until it’s cold and sobs until he has no more tears.

Δ

Horace moves Will’s bedroll to the other side of the fire and starts cleaning his weapons as he waits for Halt to wake.

All the grief and sorrow he’s felt over the past few days seems to have been exhausted, and now he’s just...empty.

Will wanted to be buried with his weapons, he knows. Like the Skandians, he wants— want_ed_ to take the markers of his skill and status with him into the next life, wherever that may be. And Horace won’t bury him with anything that’s less than pristine.

He’s so focused on his work that he doesn’t notice that Halt’s awake until he speaks.

“When?” is all he says, but Horace knows.

“Just before dawn. He went peacefully. I don’t think he was in pain. He just…” The burning in his throat is back. He shuts his eyes against it and swallows it down. “He just went to sleep.”

“Good.” They’re silent for a few long, lingering moments. “I’m sorry,” Halt says, then. “I’m sorry this is your burden.”

Horace looks up at him at last, and sees the echoes of his own heartbreak in those dark eyes. “I’ve failed you," he whispers. "I’ve failed you both. _I’m_ the one who should be sorry. And I am. God, am I sorry.”

He’s crying again. Apparently he isn’t as empty as he thought. He looks down at the saxe knife in his hands, then back up at Halt, tears spilling down his cheeks.

Halt regards him evenly. “There’s an Arridi proverb – I don’t remember exactly, but it’s something like, ‘grief is just love with nowhere to go.’ Find a path for it, and you can bear it. Keep it to yourself, and it rots. Now, help me up, so I can say goodbye to Will."

Δ

Halt dies that evening, just after dusk.

_They both died in the darkness,_ Horace thinks, and is hit with the memory of the Celtic miner at the bridge, who’d begged to be carried into the cavern so he wouldn’t die in the daylight. 

Perhaps Rangers are the same way… But he dismisses the thought. They may have done their work in the shadows and abhorred the spotlight, but they both loved the sun. They both loved the fresh, sweet air of Redmont and the rich, earthy scents of the forests.

They should have died in the light.

They should have died closer to home.

They shouldn’t have died at all.

For want of better options, Horace buries them there by the campsite: Will with his bow, quiver, and knives, Halt with his bow and saxe; both with their cloaks and oakleaf pendants. The quiver and throwing knife, he’ll take back to Redmont – to Pauline and Arald and Gilan, to make a memorial there. He spends the day foraging for rocks to build cairns over the graves, and marks the spot on his map as best he can.

The horses, and the rest of their belongings, will go with him – Gilan will know what to do with Abelard and Tug, which is good because Horace can’t even look at them without being hit in the gut with the horrible, empty _loneliness._ He knows they feel it, too, and that only makes it worse.

He stays the night there, with two graves and a low-burning fire, and tries to conjure their spirits in the smoke and the crackling flames, but all he sees is smoke, and all he hears is the popping of the wood.

In the morning, he saddles Kicker for the first time in almost a week, sheaths his sword with more violence than usual, and turns back to the path they’d been following.

Under his sleeve and a loose layer of bandages, the two small burns on his wrist itch ferociously, but he ignores them. They are his punishment, his penance, and he deserves all their discomfort and more. Eventually they will heal into two identical oak leaves, pressed into the soft skin of his inner arm. Eventually, the throbbing will fade, and the memory of the searing pain will be distant and worn.

The other two aches, the other two spots of pain and deadened nerves, will remain with him forever.

He’ll deal with that later, though, when he goes home and has to face his grief in full.

For now, his mind is given over to cold fury, and only one thought breaks through it.

_Revenge._

**Author's Note:**

> the quote about grief actually comes from the blog [normal-horoscopes](https://normal-horoscopes.tumblr.com), which i would recommend checking out for a really fascinating mix of shitposting and very deep insights, while the title and the summary are excerpted from the famous poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye, “Do not stand at my grave and weep,” which always makes me fuckin sob.
> 
> hope you enjoyed this but if not don’t worry i didn’t either


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